


bandaids don't fix bullet holes (forgive, forget, let go)

by susiecarter



Category: Gridlocked (2015)
Genre: Bad Flirting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Protectiveness, Repression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-25 03:54:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12522388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: David hadn't really figured he'd see the kid again, after. Which was good, because he was kind of messed up about stuff, and something about the thought of having Brody around seemed sort of dangerous.(In retrospect, he should've realized there was no way he'd get lucky enough to avoid dealing with this shit forever.)





	bandaids don't fix bullet holes (forgive, forget, let go)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NaughtyAnne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaughtyAnne/gifts).



> Your request for this movie was basically everything I could possibly have wanted to write for it, NaughtyAnne! I just hope you like this, and that you've had a great FGE. :D
> 
> There is absolutely zero attention paid to making a recovery timeline/Brody's reappearance/basically anything else about the setup particularly plausible! I wanted post-movie David and Brody stuck together on ridealong, so that's where I put them. *hands* ... Also, the Taylor Swift was only supposed to be a working title, I swear. /o\

 

 

David hadn't really figured he'd see the kid again, after.

Which was fine. It was going to take him some time to argue his way back up to just the street cop shit, never mind SRT-5, even once he'd healed up a bit—because the doc sure wasn't going to clear him properly, not when he'd fucked his wound up all over again. So he'd be back out there busting small-time drug dealers for a while yet. And the kid's handlers or staff or what-the-fuck-ever were hardly going to send him right back out on ridealong to get shot at some more. So that was probably it.

Not like David minded. He'd always liked being alone—the quiet of it, the comfort of knowing he was the only one he was responsible for. No distractions, nobody to answer to or look out for, no endless fucking nattering in his ear.

Yeah, he liked being alone. And besides, it was better that way.

Maybe he'd even stick with this whole ordinary cop gig for a while. Not like having a team had worked out real well for him the last couple times.

So he pushed as hard as he could to get himself back on the job, because like hell was he going to sit around staring at his ceiling. He needed something to _do_ , something to think about.

Something besides Brody's body lying on the floor.

The thing was, it hadn't been a problem in the moment. He'd looked at Brody laid out like that, and he'd felt his head go clear and sharp and focused. Brody wasn't the first person who'd gotten killed on David's watch, and David knew how to deal with it. He was going to stay alive, he was going to get out of there, and he was maybe going to kill John Korver with his bare hands while he was at it. And then, once it was all over—once he was alone again—

Once he was alone again, that was when it was going to fuck him up.

And then Brody had turned out to be okay. Except that didn't seem to make a difference to whatever idiot nonverbal part of David's brain was responsible for this shit. He had the kid's limp body, closed eyes and slack face, tattooed on the backs of his eyelids, and he was fucked up about it anyway.

But he wasn't going to see the kid again, so it didn't matter. He was going to go back to the station, back on duty, and he was going to do his job. And he was going to be alone, which was great, because that way it wouldn't matter if he was fucked up while he did it.

And then he walked into the bullpen, and Sanders looked up and made a face at him and said, "Oh, thank god, Hendrix—will you get this kid out of here?"

And David looked at her, and then at Brody fucking Walker, who'd swung around the second Sanders said David's name—whose eyes landed on David, and then his whole fucking face sort of lit up, and then he smiled, lopsided, almost tentative. And David thought, _Oh, shit._

 

 

Once they were out in the car, David tuned out the steady stream of the kid yammering at him, stared at his hands on the steering wheel, and tried to get his head on straight.

Maybe this would help. Right? It should, shouldn't it? Seeing the kid up and walking around and pretty much fine, telling him to shut up when he rambled too long or to stay the fuck out of the way while David handcuffed somebody—it was like before. Like Brody'd never been shot at all. It should have helped David get over whatever the hell was wrong with him.

But instead David drove around all day with Brody an arm's length away, and it was—it was like an itch he couldn't scratch. He felt strange, weirdly focused, concentrating just a little too hard on not reaching over into Brody's space, not touching Brody. Because if he did—

—what? He didn't know, didn't want to know. He would do something, he felt that part loud and clear, but he refused to let himself think about it long enough to decide what; but whatever it was, it would be stupid and irrational and a goddamn terrible idea.

He could keep a lid on it in the car, at the station. He could bottle it up, pretend it wasn't there. But it was a relief to clock out, nod at the kid and walk away, and then get back to his apartment and shut himself up in there and finally feel like he could breathe.

Alone, David thought, was definitely better.

He changed his bandages, got himself a couple beers—cracked one open and set the other on the coffee table, still closed, just so he wouldn't have to get up when he finished the first one.

The first sip was perfect, so cold he almost couldn't taste it. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back and swallowed, and sighed out a long slow breath, and felt the tension of a whole day being so scrupulously careful around Brody start to seep out of his shoulders.

And then somebody knocked on the door.

David opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. Fuck. The way his luck was going, there was only one person that was going to be.

"Hey, dude, it's me."

David screwed his eyes shut again and very carefully didn't swear—didn't swear, didn't set his beer down, didn't make a goddamn sound. If Brody brought this up tomorrow, he could put it down to bad timing, that he'd been out for the evening or something. But that meant Brody couldn't know he was in here.

And he knew it was ridiculous. He'd let the kid in before, and it hadn't been a problem. It was just—

It was just that he'd already spent the whole goddamn day buttoned up tight, trying not to let the mess inside him get anywhere Brody'd be able to see it. He couldn't keep doing it all night. He couldn't.

Brody here, after hours, was—it was going nowhere good. It was dangerous, David thought, which sounded stupid but was also so profoundly true that he couldn't make himself take it back, even inside his own head. It was dangerous, Brody being here like this, and David couldn't let him in.

"Come on, man. I thought we settled this! Let me in, will you?"

David didn't move.

"So are you actually not there, or are you just fucking with me? Guess either way you won't answer. You're a piece of work, dude."

David tensed up for a second, because if the kid actually made a scene or disturbed the neighbors, he'd have to do something—but Brody didn't sound mad. He laughed a little, after, and then there was a noise like maybe he was tapping his fingers against the door, thinking.

"Well, okay. So if you're there, you can hear me. And if you're not there, I might as well talk to the door. It's got pretty much the same range of facial expressions as you, am I right?"

David rolled his eyes. Jesus.

And then he kept sitting there, beer in his hand, not drinking. The kid told the door all about the argument he'd had with his agent about coming back, and how stupidly fucking long it took cracked ribs to stop hurting, and on and on and on. And David sat there and stared at the door, the door that had Brody right there on the other side of it, and listened.

Brody finally gave up around nine, threatening all the way down the hallway outside to come back tomorrow.

And he probably would, David thought. He probably would, because he could and because he was annoying that way. Because he hadn't died on the floor in that facility, which would have kept him out of David's hair forever; because he was fine.

And sooner or later, whatever this thing was in David's head, in his chest, dug in deep and stubborn as a fishhook, was going to realize that and let him the fuck go.

 

 

He was kind of expecting the kid to make a federal case out of it. Especially after the second time, the third; especially after it started to become a pattern, Brody coming to knock on David's door and talking to it for three hours a night, while David sat inside like a log and pretended he wasn't there.

But Brody only tried to bring it up once. David couldn't even really be sure—the kid didn't talk _all_ the time, and it wasn't weird for there to be little stretches of silence here and there during the day. But this one time, something was off. David felt the back of his neck prickling, and he risked a glance over; and Brody'd opened his mouth, and then he closed it, and then he opened it again—

And that had to be him working up to something. A chilly electric jolt of dread jangled its way down David's spine, and he could feel himself squaring his shoulders, the angle of his jaw going tight and forbidding. He watched, almost absently, as his knuckles whitened around the steering wheel.

And Brody must've seen it, too, because he snorted half a laugh through his nose and said, "Okay, okay, all right."

"What?" David said tightly.

"Nothing, dude," Brody said, almost gentle. "Nothing. Never mind."

And that was it. The kid didn't try again, after that.

Seemed almost ominous, given how stubborn Brody was about everything else. But he was apparently content to settle for being just his usual regular-strength pain-in-the-ass self.

Which was kind of—nice. When shit went down, especially back on some of those old missions with Korver, David always felt it for a while; and this time was no exception. He'd been hyperaware, on edge. Nothing to do about it but wait for it to wear off. David wasn't much interested in alcoholism as a lifestyle.

But Brody being normal like that kind of helped. Made it a little easier, as the days went by, to gear down to something approaching baseline.

So: it was fine. No big deal. They'd keep doing what they were doing until Brody fucked off again to Hollywood, and they wouldn't talk about it, and it was fine.

And then they got an alert over the radio about a holdup in progress.

David recognized the street and took the next corner hard enough to make the tires squeal a little; the kid pressed his hands against the dash and said, "Whoa, man, jesus," but he was laughing a little, too.

The storefront was open, no real cover and a lot of glass, so David didn't pull up right in front—that would be pretty much asking whoever it was who had a gun in there to take a shot at the car. He was already thinking over angles of approach, lines of sight, as he swung out of the driver's seat; and then he heard the sound of a second car door closing.

For an instant, it was just background noise. He didn't even really recognize it for what it was. And then he looked up, and Brody was looking back at him across the car roof, right before he turned around and moved toward the storefront—

David shouted at him. He couldn't even be sure what he said, or if it was words at all; only that he shouted, shouted and threw himself around the car, slid part of the way across the hood on his ass. He struck Brody a second before the sound of a gunshot, crash of shattering glass, reached him, and then they were on the ground, rolling across the sidewalk.

Everything had fallen out of his head—everything but Brody, the stark sharp-edged need to get to him in time.

Everything, including the iron-fisted focus David had been using to keep his head on straight. He was wrapped around Brody, hand careful at the back of the kid's head to keep it from knocking against the pavement, arm tight around the kid's waist, thighs interlocking. And he—he didn't have the words for how it felt, wouldn't've used them even if he'd known what they were; a rush of _something_ , greed or certainty or satisfaction, or all of them at once. The kid, under him and _alive_ , warm, David's grip tight around him, pressed close enough for David to feel his heart pounding—

David had turned the kid's head automatically into the curve of his shoulder, had tucked his own down, reflex developed after living through a few too many sprays of shrapnel. He couldn't let go, didn't want to—and it had already been too long, fuck, but he just couldn't do it. He loosened up a little instead, trying to talk himself down, and then he looked without thinking and could've punched himself for it: the last picture he needed to have in his head was the kid's wide pale eyes, soft startled mouth, from three inches away—

"Jesus fuck, kid," he made himself say. And much, much too slowly, reluctance dragging heavy as lead, he forced himself to let go, to roll the extra half-turn to take him off Brody and onto the sidewalk before he pushed himself up. "Was getting shot really so much fun you want to do it again?"

"David," Brody said, so carefully it made David's blood run cold. Shit. He'd noticed—noticed whatever the fuck that was. "David," he said again, and grabbed for David's shoulder.

"Not the time, Brody," David said, clipped and impatient, so Brody would get that he meant it. He made one motion out of shrugging Brody off and going for his holster.

"Okay, all right," Brody said, sounding so much like himself again that David relaxed a little. He held his hands up, defensive, and waited for David to glance at him, and then he raised an eyebrow and added, "Later, then."

Fuck.

"Yeah, yeah," David said, looking away. Just to check that he had a full clip, that was all. "You stay here, and you don't step out in front of the glass."

"Scout's honor," Brody said, with an obnoxious little salute; and David gave him a flat glare before he shifted over toward the storefront to try to get a look inside. Maybe there'd be a door around back he could use to come at the guy from behind.

Or maybe he'd get lucky and get himself shot. Nice long coma would keep Brody off his case for a while.

 

 

Because the thing was, that little lapse was all the kid was going to need. Barest crack in the wall, and Brody was on it with a crowbar, a hacksaw, half a dozen homemade pipe bombs.

That was what it felt like, anyway. Things had worked a certain way back on SRT-5; everybody had walls, and everybody knew they were there for a reason, and if somebody's showed signs of falling in on them, you didn't make it worse. You gave them space, time, a chance to brick it back up. You let them know you saw the gap, a long look here and there, or maybe a nod; and you let them know you'd cover it for them until they sorted it out, and that was it.

But Brody wasn't like that. Compared to what David was used to, compared to—to being alone, Brody was a full-frontal fucking assault.

He didn't even wait until _later_ later, the hallway outside David's apartment, a little plausible deniability. He just caught David by the elbow right outside the station, when David finally called it quits on the paperwork following up the holdup, and said quietly, "You're still fucked up about it, right?"

"What," David said, soft and flat, not a question.

Kid didn't take the hint, because when did he ever? "That's what that was about today, with that whole flying tackle thing, with—" Brody cut himself off, and just sort of gestured vaguely toward David. "—everything. You were weird, man. Because you're still fucked up about what happened with Korver."

David sighed, sharp, through his nose. "Where are you going with this?" he said—warningly, not like he didn't know, because obviously the kid was past being fooled.

And Brody looked at him quizzically for a second, brow furrowed, and then said, "No, hey, no—I'm not trying to, like, score points on you or anything. I just—" and then he stopped and cleared his throat, shifted his weight. "That's why I keep coming over to your place all the time. You know?"

David tensed, unthinking, because the idea that Brody was hanging around this whole time for _his_ sake, because the kid felt fucking _sorry_ for him, was about the last thing he wanted to hear.

But Brody's hand was still on his elbow, and he must have felt it happen, because he shook his head instantly and said, "No, like—like, I get that. I'm still fucked up about it, too."

David stared at him. The same way he was keeping his hands out of Brody's space, he'd been keeping his eyes out of Brody's space, too, trying to make sure he wasn't watching Brody too long or too obviously. But he stood there and he let himself _look_ for the first time in a while, and all at once he could kind of see it. Something unsteady, almost jittery, under Brody's usual brash arrogance; something tired, wary, around the eyes, the downturned corners of the mouth.

"I'm still fucked up about it, too," Brody repeated, more quietly. "And you—you were there, you saw how it all went down. You kept me alive. In the car with you, out there, it's—it's the only time I feel okay anymore, man. It's the only time I feel safe."

Motherfucker. David squeezed his eyes shut, and tried not to dwell on how gloriously fucking good that felt to hear, how sweetly, greedily satisfying it was, something in him briefly but perfectly sated.

Taking Brody back to his place right now was a really, really bad idea, he thought.

"Fine," he said. "Fine, come on," and he walked out of the station with Brody a half-step in front of him and just barely managed to keep his hand off the small of the kid's back.

Jesus Christ.

 

 

The drive back to David's apartment was quiet—a little tense, but not in a bad way, not strained. They went inside, and David got out a few beers, one for the kid and two for himself, and then they went and sat, by silent agreement, on the couch.

And it should have gotten weird right about then. Hell, it should have been weird the whole damn time. But the thing was, Brody really did look almost relaxed. There was none of that twitchiness just under the surface of him, not like there had been back at the station—back when there had still been a chance David might say no.

And the real kicker was that David felt better, too. It scratched that itch he'd been carrying around, to have Brody in here; to have eyes on him, to know where he was and that he was okay.

Which, in retrospect, suddenly felt like half the reason it hadn't pissed him off, Brody following him back here every night. He could probably have gotten Brody to give up or go away, if he'd tried. But he hadn't wanted to. Because as long as Brody was standing in his hallway, knocking on his door and calling him a stupid stubborn son of a bitch, David knew where he was. David knew where he was, and that he was okay.

But the thing about scratching an itch was that sometimes that just woke it up; sometimes that just made it harder to ignore. Like in the car, that first day Brody'd been back—the clear inflexible focus it had taken not to do anything inadvisable, suddenly having him within arm's reach like that.

David tried not to think about it, and tried not to think about it, and tried not to think about it. He was trying so hard he killed his first beer a little quicker than he'd meant to, and then he realized he'd given himself the perfect excuse to get himself some space, getting up to take the bottle to the sink.

And he was clearly off his game, because he didn't even realize Brody'd followed him until he turned around and the kid was right there. "Hey, David," Brody was saying, "not that this isn't great and all, just hanging out, but—"

David didn't mean to do it. It was just—it was just Brody was too close, that was all. David set a hand on his chest, light, just to push him back a little, except—

Except he didn't push. Brody stopped halfway through a word, snapped his mouth shut and swallowed hard; and David stood there with his hand on Brody's chest, telling himself to take it the fuck off already, and didn't move.

He'd been about to touch Brody—Brody's body, that's what he'd thought at the time, and he'd figured he knew what he'd find, but he'd been about to do it anyway. And he'd been braced for it, the way the warmth might already be fading; concrete floors were fucking cold. The way he'd feel at the neck and there'd be nothing to find—or maybe there would be, and he'd catch the last couple beats before Brody was gone for real. Point-blank like that, no way Korver wouldn't have made it count.

But now he was standing next to his sink, in his apartment, with Brody standing in front of him; and his hand was on Brody's chest, and he could feel Brody's heartbeat.

And this was it, the thing he couldn't have let himself do, the dangerous thing—except he was doing it, or not doing it so much as watching himself do it, strapped to the top of the runaway train. Maybe the kid would freak out. Maybe he'd shove David off and leave. David almost hoped so; that was about the only thing that was going to stop this from happening, because David sure as shit couldn't do it.

But Brody didn't move. He tensed up a little, swallowed again. But he didn't move. "O—okay," he said unsteadily. "Um. David—David, are you—"

His voice climbed about half an octave and then cracked, as David helplessly lifted his other hand, slid it up to Brody's throat—and it wasn't like it was a surprise, finding a pulse there, too, but fuck, it felt good anyway.

And hell, if the kid wasn't going to stop him—David closed his eyes and moved in a half-step, crowded Brody back a little against the fridge, and let himself really _check_. Skimmed a hand up through the kid's hair, back and forth, systematic, looking for head wounds, swelling, blood; and then down the back of the neck, out across the shoulders, for any unevenness in the collarbone, any lumps that might signify minor fractures, the misalignment of dislocation—

"Dude," Brody said, wavering, pitched high. "Dude, uh—"

"Shut up," David said quietly, concentrating. Backward to the shoulderblades, quick slide down the upper curve of the spine—and Brody shivered suddenly, which threw him off for a second. Loop back up, trail down each arm to check the elbows, forearms, wrists.

"Okay, seriously, don't take this the wrong way, but what the fuck are you doing? Is this—is this a sex thing?"

"It's not a sex thing," David told him flatly, eyes still closed, running brisk steady touches along each of the bones in his hands.

Except then—then he found himself working his way down Brody's back again, the small of it, the bow of the spine and the long narrow muscle to either side; the ribs, and—

And, fuck, he'd snuck the tips of his fingers under the kid's shirt, was skimming them along the warm skin of the kid's lower back in a way that was definitely not medically necessary.

Okay, so maybe it was a little bit of a sex thing. David opened his eyes, and yeah, Brody was staring at him, pale eyes wide, cheeks flushed. There, and alive, and whole; and—and not moving away.

"I'm just saying," Brody said slowly, gaze flicking back and forth over David's face, and then once, again, down to David's mouth. "I'm just saying, it feels a little bit like a sex thing to me."

"Yeah?" David said, mild, leaning in a fraction. Because if sex was actually on the table—well, damn. Slow heavy heat was trickling down his spine just thinking about it.

"Yeah," Brody agreed. "And, uh, it would be okay with me if it were a sex thing, I think." And then he cracked a smug fucking smirk. "Just, you know, issuing that bulletin for any units within a reasonable distance to respond—"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," David said, rolling his eyes, and Brody laughed unsteadily and then swayed in and caught his mouth.

And if David had let himself think about this—which he mostly hadn't, but he was trying to make up for lost time here—he'd have expected the same glib bullshit attitude Brody seemed to rely on the rest of the time. Brody overdoing it, too much flash and not enough substance, trying too hard, and David settling a firm hand on his jaw and showing him how to do it right; that seemed pretty plausible, and David wouldn't have minded a bit.

But instead it was—well, pushy, sure. But sort of desperate, too. Like maybe Brody _had_ been letting himself think about this, and a little too often, at that. He wasn't being standoffish, self-consciously cool, take-it-or-leave-it; he was really going for it, hooking an arm around David's shoulders, digging the fingers of his other hand into David's back like he wanted it too bad to care how he came off.

Which, fuck, David thought. Fuck, that was kind of hot.

Brody's hair was too short to pull. David curved a steady hand around the back of his neck instead, gripped just hard enough that Brody would feel it; and Brody made a sharp sound into his mouth and shuddered against him. David pushed a thigh between Brody's and backed him up the last couple inches against the fridge, hard enough to make it rock a little, and Brody broke off the kiss with a gasp, squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his head back against the freezer.

"Fuck, oh, fuck—David—"

"Yeah?" David said, bland, and dropped his free hand to Brody's thigh—curved around it, under, squeezed just to feel that long lean muscle under his fingers and then lifted, rolling his hips up into Brody so the whole lengths of their dicks were pressed together, and even through two layers of denim, that was—

"Jesus Christ," Brody hissed. "Jesus, fuck," and he grabbed David's face and dragged him in, caught David's lower lip with a hint of teeth and then sucked David's tongue into his mouth, and that was about as far as David wanted to take this in the kitchen.

He eased back, letting Brody settle onto his own two feet again instead of David heaving him halfway off the floor.

"What—hey, no, come back!"

"No," David said, and then, when Brody scowled at him and opened his mouth to say something stupid, raised his eyebrows and added, "Bed."

"Oh," Brody said. "Right," and beat him there by almost three seconds.

 

 

The kid had probably had a lot of "sex things", David told himself. He had no self-control and he was _Brody Walker_. There was no reason to try to make this into something it wasn't.

Except it was a lot easier to think that than it was to do it. With Brody spread out under him, flushed hot all the way up his chest, biting his lip—and fuck, he looked so weird and uncertain, almost shy, right up until David touched him. And then it was like he was just _gone_ , lost, leaning into every little brush of David's hands, artless and eager.

It was fucking impossible, was what it was. Fucking impossible to keep it brisk, straightforward. Brody, in all his loud bright bullshit excess, was one hell of a feast; and David—

David was starving. Had been for a while, maybe.

So he just—he just let himself. Whatever idiot thoughts popped into his head, every whim that crossed his mind, he _let_ himself. He took his time kissing Brody; really _kissing_ him, deep, wet, until his mouth was sore with it, until Brody's was lush and red, until they'd given each other some serious fucking stubble burn. He let himself work his way down Brody's throat an inch at a time, while the kid swore at him and clutched his shoulders, and sucked marks into Brody's chest, hips, thighs. He took what felt like an entire fucking hour working his fingers into Brody, a knuckle at a time; sucked Brody off while he did it, and then fucked him after, slow and steady, until the kid was hard again, breathless and pliant, murmuring David's name into David's mouth and gasping unsteadily every time David thrust in.

And then he stopped.

He didn't mean to. Brody swore and then squirmed a little, dug a heel into David's back and said, "Oh, fuck, come on, please, _please_ ," but David was—he'd let himself go too far, doing every other thing he wanted; he couldn't rein this alone back in.

He was breathing hard—too hard, harsh, and after a second Brody seemed to hear it.

"David, hey," he said, and pushed himself up on one elbow, smoothed his other hand up across David's shoulder to his throat, the nape of his neck. "Hey, come on," and David closed his eyes and just did it: hooked an arm around the small of Brody's back, and tugged him up just that half-inch far enough to press his forehead to Brody's chest.

Breathing. Alive. David flattened his free hand against Brody's ribs, just to feel them expand, contract, expand again; he kept his eyes shut, and he could feel himself trembling with the effort of it, holding Brody up like this, keeping himself from sliding out, but fuck, fuck, he couldn't stop—

"Hey," Brody said again in a different tone, low and careful, and kissed him—the slope of his head, prickle of stubble against his scalp; and then his temple, the upper curve of his ear.

"Oh, fuck off," David managed after a second, and Brody snorted and then _licked his head_ , because of all the weirdoes David could've picked to get hung up on, he'd gone for the weirdest.

"I didn't die, okay?" Brody said. "I didn't die and neither did you, which means we're free to have all the smoking hot sex we want until we _do_ die. So let's get cracking already."

"Gee, you really know how to sweet-talk a guy," David said, and then held Brody down and fucked him until he was gasping too hard to say anything stupid.

Pretty good look on him, David thought, and tugged him up off the bed to kiss him just before they both came. They stayed like that for a little while, curled into each other, sweaty and sticky and breathing hard; and then David hauled Brody up and out of the bed and into the shower, placidly ignoring all his bitching and moaning.

They had maybe ten minutes before David's crappy shower was going to be out of hot water, and they'd just fucked a whole lot, so David didn't let himself get distracted. And he didn't—he didn't even really want to, that grasping desperate thing in his head finally still, settled, silent. Brody was warm and wet under his hands, still griping in a long mumbled string about what an asshole David was for making him stand up right now, and David snorted at him and then tugged him close to reach past him for the soap. It felt good, comfortable.

And of all the things he hadn't let himself think about that had been dropped in his lap tonight anyway, this was the one he'd least expected: that maybe they'd manage to make something good, something comfortable. That maybe, just maybe, they'd manage to make something that could last.

 

 


End file.
